


Festival-Goers

by maximum_overboner



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Dark Comedy, Gen, M/M, Slice of Life, goofy shenanigans, it's not the healthiest, junkrat is junkrat, roadhog has a love-hate relationship with him that's a lot heavier on the hate, they're together but it's... it's very unusual, what i imagine they get up to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-15 13:06:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11806596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maximum_overboner/pseuds/maximum_overboner
Summary: The Festival de la Luz provides ample cover for hardened criminals intent on plundering Dorado of its riches. But these two 'visiting tourists' wouldn't happen to know anything about that, they blend in so easily!





	Festival-Goers

**Author's Note:**

> i do love goofy shenanigans! can be considered a loose sequel to this! 
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/10873260

The Festival de la Luz attracted all sorts; tourists looking for some fun, families mourning their dead, lost to the crisis, people that had grown up in Dorado returning to celebrate and taking the opportunity to visit relatives. Unfortunately for Dorado, and the large bank it housed, ‘all sorts’ included Junkrat and Roadhog. Upon surveying a map, hiding in a ditch in Volskaya, Junkrat declared that Dorado was ‘just too tempting’ and that they should embark immediately. Roadhog, upon doing even the smallest amount of research his companion didn’t have the patience for, noted that the upcoming festival would be a good cover for their illicit activities. Security would be heightened, but a crowd would give them precious anonymity. After a hefty payment to some of Roadhog’s old ‘buds’ and the smuggling of small packages in places they didn’t care to mention, they found themselves in Mexico in close proximity to one of the most well-stocked banks on the planet. Junkrat nearly slavered all over the table at the prospect. He wiped his jaw, looking over his crudely drawn plans and blueprints, Roadhog opposite.

“Only one way in?”

“Uh, there’s more than one,” Junkrat admitted. “But it’s the only one that won’t get us killed.”

Roadhog threw him a dry glance, steepling his fingers and considering their options. The bar was busy, not teeming with people, but a large enough crowd to act as a distraction should they need to slink away and hide from the police. It also served fantastic taquitos which meant Roadhog was sold on this place from the outset. Roadhog ordered for them in stilted, but correct, Spanish, and took note of the fact that the waitress looked terrified.

Roadhog was wearing a cunning disguise of a Hawaiian shirt, a hat, and sunglasses that failed to cover up the obliterated half of his face, his bag by his feet. His breathing was laboured but steady, his mask being too obvious in such a crowded space. He looked at Junkrat.

“How do I look?”

Junkrat, wearing a pink crop top with ‘JUICY’ pasted across the front in glitter, stolen from a vendor in a frantic quest for a shirt, responded.

“Roadie, you look fantastic! Like a million dollars. I can tell, ‘cause I want to steal ya.”

Roadhog suppressed a chuckle, letting his brows furrow into a look that would threaten anyone else.

“Not me, idiot. The disguise.”

“Absolutely fucking terrible.”

Roadhog groaned. Disguises never sat well, Roadhog had too large a frame and Junkrat’s homemade limbs were unusual enough to draw attention. Even when presented with more dexterous options, that looked better, moved better and sounded better, not scraping with every movement, he stubbornly refused to upgrade. And while Roadhog could understand this to an extent (even if he wasn’t wearing it he would never part with his mask as he wouldn’t be ‘Hog’ without it) hauling around an arm made from an antique engine and motorcycle springs was very distinctly ‘Junker’. Junkrat knew what he was thinking and shrugged, whilst Roadhog resigned himself to never fitting in which is a problem if you’re planning a bank heist.

“Your tactic ain’t bad,” he conceded.

“Tactic?”

“For fitting in. During the day.”

Junkrat looked pleased, looking at his hand as if he was casually examining his nails and not accepting a rare compliment.

“Too right! If you start juggling people just think you’re doing some weird art project. Plus people don’t look you in the eye, ‘cause they think you want money. And I do. Just not from juggling.”

“You still took the pesos people tossed, though.”

“I mean… Yes? I’m not going to turn that down. I’m starting to think you don’t have the multi-million-dollar-heist mindset, my ol’ porcine pal--”

Roadhog had to shush him violently, clamping a hand over Junkrat’s mouth.

“Bar. Public. Vague.”

“Mffmmf.”

“What?”

“Mffmf.”

Roadhog removed his hand, wiping it down on his shirt.

“What’re you saying.”

“I said ‘mfffmmf’, Roadie.”

Roadhog suppressed a cluster headache. The waitress returned with their meals and Junkrat set about cramming his into his maw at Mach five. Roadhog resisted the urge to do the same, recalling manners a lifetime away from his existence in the Outback, before shrugging and joining him. They garnered more glances but it couldn’t be helped, eating quickly was a difficult habit to break.

“So what I figured is--”

Junkrat paused to slop another quesadilla into his gob.

“-- These are amazing-- anyway, what I figured was that the bank is going to be decked to the nines. You hear about that hacker? Sober, or something.”

“Sombra.”

“Yeah, that’s the one, nearly picked the place clean a few years back. They upped their security, and the bank was no slouch in that department in the first place. But that’s hacking, all that nonsense, ain’t it? Sitting at a screen. It’s not much to go on, but I bet they dumped most of their funds into cyber-security after that.”

Junkrat wiggled his eyebrows.

“Reckon they won’t be prepared for the ol’ ‘percussive’ approach if you catch my drift. I think we go for shock and awe, storm our way in, blast the vaults to bits, then book it with as much as we can carry. Well, as much as you can carry.”

Roadhog scrutinized him with the cold, cunning look of an observer, knowing full well how Junkrat thought. He swallowed his meal, then spoke.

“You made most of that up. You were looking up stuff on the boat here; you don’t know how the bank security works and you’re lookin’ for an excuse to plant the--”

Bombs, don’t say bombs, it makes ears prick.

“-- To do what you want.”

Junkrat laughed, a little bashful.

“See right through me, dont’cha? Fine! Fine, you got me, I’m just giddy. Still, think we can do it? ‘Cause I will with or without your help, y’know.”

Roadhog rolled his eyes, deeply, deeply exasperated, all mocking endearment sealed tightly away until it appeared as obloquy, until even he couldn’t tell the difference.

“Yeah.”

“Of course you do! Say what you want about me, I know my craft. Better than anyone. Don’t get to be as famous as I am in that respect,” he boasted, “without being a bit of a genius. I’m getting itchy, though.”

Roadhog shut down this line of thought before it could really manifest, his plate clean.

“When we’re plannin’ we break one law at a time. The only rule I gave you. We’re already here illegally. We get sloppy, we get caught.”

“Please? Just a bit?”

“No.”

“A bit of an explosion?”

“No.”

“A cheeky blast for the road?”

“No.”

Junkrat groaned, leaning back.

“You’re the worst! You drive a man to drink. You’re forcing me to go order a margarita, is what you’re doing. You want one?”

“No. One of us has to have a clean head.”

“Tequila?”

“... Three.”

Junkrat cackled.

“Good man! No drinking competition this time. Nearly shat my liver out after the last. I’m either gonna die next week from the amount of vodka I knocked back,” he shuddered, “or live forever. Preserved. Like an Australian pickle.”

He stood up, then sat down.

“Oh.”

“Don’t know how to order the drinks, huh.”

“... I do. Margarita means margarita in Spanish, right?”

Roadhog didn’t bother with the threats, knowing the standard ‘I’ll shoot you and leave you to die’ was implied and that Junkrat didn’t believe him anymore because there’s only so many times you can threaten death before the effect wears off.

“I stole us phrase-books," Roadhog said, "you saw me reading mine on the boat here.”

“I was tinkering and refining my fine wares.”

“You were glueing on bike horns to your batch.”

“Yeah. ‘Cause when they blow up they toot. It’s funnier.”

Nevermind. Roadhog leaned over the table, using all five hundred pounds of his weight to harden his silhouette. He was a violent, dangerous man.  

“If you don’t take this seriously I’ll snap you in half.”

Junkrat bopped him on the nose, holding his head up with his hand and looking Roadhog in the eye with great affection.

“Whoa Roadie, whoa! Save that sort of talk for the bedroom, we’re in public! Or go on. The night is young.”

Roadhog, with a deep breath, sat back, resigned to the fact that they were apparently a duo. He pinched the bridge of his nose. It was his fault for sleeping with him, really. Junkrat was needier than a spaniel. In the time it had taken him to come to grips with his life, Junkrat had planted a smooch on his forehead and sat back down. Roadhog, wordlessly, stood up and walked to the bar, picking through the phrases he had memorized in an effort to be understood. As he waited, he noticed a uniform in his periphery, and with as casual a glance as he could muster he looked.

‘Policía’.

Oh, Christ. He kept his cool. This man could be here for any reason. There was a festival going on. With a steady poker face, Roadhog glanced to his companion and found that he had rocketed to his feet, petrified.

_“Fuck me sideways Roadhog, they’ve found us!”_

_Oh, Christ._ Roadhog, throwing the man in front of him over his shoulder and ploughing through the crowd, barreled towards his bag and with it, his shotgun. The officer, who had been called to break up a drunken dispute at the bar next door, caught sight of them both. Junkrat leapt upon the table dramatically.

“You’ll never take me alive, pigs!”

He reached into his back pocket, pulling out a smoke bomb and moving to thrash it against the ground. As it left his grasp, he heard Roadhog raise his voice.

“You keep smoke bombs in the other pocket, those’re--!”

Whoops! Real bombs. Oh well. He could live without a few more toes.


End file.
